


fool's heart

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Mrs. Hudson, Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is loved, Sherlock is sad, Unrequited Love, post-HLV, they all love Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 07:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4910683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dinner at 221B, some time after John has left that awful wife of his. Mrs Hudson decides to have a Serious Talk with Sherlock (to Sherlock's utter delight, of course), and they end up making a bet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fool's heart

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this gif set 
> 
> explosivecumberbatch.tumblr.com/post/128338663279/sherlock-adores-mrs-hudson-special-thanks-to
> 
> Written on a whim on my phone, so errors are possible.

They're sitting together for dinner. Sherlock is impossible and amusing at turns, and John is faking his displeasure and half-heartedly admonishing Sherlock around his spoon of peas. Sherlock just ignores him.

Into the silence after this, Mrs Hudson says something off-handedly along the lines of 'exotic dancing' and 'herbal soothers'; she tells them a brief story about how she very accidentally slipped doses of a certain libido stimulating remedy into Frank's dinner that one time, because of the other women and all, she was just being nice--it wouldn't do to disappoint the other women, surely. Mrs Hudson had only just got to know about them, and she wanted to make sure Frank would be able to satisfy all of them, after all. At John's wide-eyed look, she solemnly assures him, "Don't worry, I made sure to slip him a healthy dose so it would last him a long time."

John just cracks up until he's flat out giggling into his roast and Sherlock is watching him with the corners of his mouth tilting up and then redirects his gaze to Mrs Hudson, eyes soft and warm and affectionate, who is smiling at the two of them with such a fond, loving look in her eyes that are still sparkling with the recollection of the past.

After dinner, John puts the dishes away until Mrs Hudson tells him to leave it. They must be tired after their latest case and she's excited to get to read John's next post so he better get around to writing it up.

"Will do so Mrs H," John tells her, putting away the last plate. "And I'll be around tomorrow noon for a look at the telly. It'll be fine."

Mrs Hudson tells him it's not urgent but looks pleased enough anyway, and sees him off with a pat on the cheek and a whispered, "Better leave off the viagra on Sherlock, dear. I want to keep my walls safe."

John leaves with his face a bit green, and Mrs Hudson laughs to herself as he walks out of the room quite stiffly. She turns to find Sherlock sitting in the back where he has been watching the two of them with his pale eyes. His face is as oddly serious as ever, handsome and still. It's a shame he's always so earnest, really, Mrs Hudson thinks. He's so much more handsome when he smiles. 

There are people who have faces that are made to smile, she knows; Sherlock is one of them. It transforms his entire face, lights him up completely from within. Sometimes, and only sometimes, and only when she has taken a herbal soother too much, and only silently and only on her own, she thinks that Sherlock's usually awful brother isn't all that awful, and isn't all that wrong; caring really is a dangerous disadvantage. Look at how her heart goes now, so uncannily and unreasonably fast, looking at Sherlock. Her Sherlock. Her poor, handsome dear. She loves him so much her chest hurts with it, but God she wouldn't have done anything different in her life, anything at all. This is the family she was always meant to have.

Sherlock is saying nothing, but Mrs Hudson knows she did something wrong--according to Sherlock, anyway. He's saying nothing and simultaneously saying everything with the disapproving set of his jaw. It looks tight and uncomfortable, and Mrs Hudson decides to take pity on him. "Give it time," she says firmly. Sherlock is stubborn about  these things, and so terribly impatient. "He's home now, and he's home for good. It just takes a while, sometimes."

Sherlock does not acknowledge her words verbally, only evades her eyes and stares at the floor. His right hand has found the table cloth, and he's picking at it with his fingers, nervously, ceaselessly. Mrs Hudson sighs. It's slow work to sit down again after she's just stood--her hip--but she does it, and surprisingly Sherlock deigns to wait until she's done. Maybe not so surprisingly anymore, though. Ever since he's been back, he's been different. Softer, and more approachable. Privately Mrs Hudson thinks she's always rather been the exception to that, save for John perhaps, but even for her Sherlock's become even softer still. Well. Maybe the two bottles of champagne they shared tonight have something to do with it too.

She worldessly puts her cold hand on the back of his larger hand. His fingers still move restlessly. "You've destroyed enough of my property, young man," she scolds him playfully. "Any more of that and you'll have trouble paying the rent."

"Mmh, yes. A tear in your table cloth will put a considerable dent into our finances," Sherlock says dryly. 

A moment of silence passes in which they both stare at their hands, Sherlock's words hanging between them like something warm and familiar. As Sherlock seems to realise his words, his hand stops fidgeting.  

"Your finances," Mrs Hudson says into the silence quietly. " _Your_ finances, Sherlock. Don't tell me there's nothing behind that."

"Yes, well, there is nothing and that is nothing," Sherlock snaps suddenly and abruptly draws his hand away. "It's the same as before, it's been that way before, and--"

 _\--and nothing came of it._  

Again, his words thicken the air between them. Unspoken, but so much louder than before. The seconds pass, and Sherlock stares resolutely away, jaw clenched tight. He seems to regret having stayed behind.

From above, there comes noise; John moving around. A pointed reminder for Sherlock to come on up and stop bothering Mrs Hudson, probably.

Mrs Hudson makes a decision. "Look at me, young man," she says as imperiously as she can, because whether or not she's well over 70--she's still Martha Hudson nee Simmons. "I said, _look at me_!"

Sherlock, ever the forty-ish year old child, huffs resignedly and reluctantly raises his eyes back to her. They're defiant, his eyes. Hard. Spiteful. Saying, stop being stupid. I'm the detective, I know better. 

"First of all, it's not the same. It's been years, and you're both different now than you were back then. But what didn't change is what you feel for each other, and that takes time because you're both still stupid little boys." Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, opening his mouth already to snap back. Probably something about how he doesn't want to hear any of this, what does he care about stupid sentiment anyway, and what does she know. Luckily for Mrs Hudson (and Sherlock), she isn't keen on listening to any of that, so she just pinches the skin of the back of Sherlock's hand meanly and presses on. "Secondly, let's make a bet."

Sherlock closes his mouth with a frown. All he says after a few seconds is, long-sufferingly, "A bet?"

"A bet."

"Will you let me go if I disagree?"

"No," Mrs Hudson says blithely.

"You have always been very diplomatic," Sherlock says, not unkindly.

"Let's make a deal," she adds, spontaneously. 

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches. "Returning to old paths, Mrs Hudson? Habits are hard to break," he says. Mrs Hudson grins at him, watches him steeple his hands underneath his chin and incline his head. "Go on, then. What bet?"

She leans forward with her elbows on the table, feeling unaccountably excited. "If I am wrong--if I've just got too much spare time on my hands watching Eastenders and all those terrible old lady telly programmes, Sherlock, then Baker Street is yours."

The concentration on Sherlock's face fades, replaced with confusion. "Wrong about what?" he asks warily.

"John," Mrs Hudson says with no preamble. It's never worked with Sherlock anyway. "If I'm wrong about John, you get to keep Baker Street. If I'm not..."

Sherlock only sighs, and maybe it is a sign of advancing senility in the both of them, but he indulges her. "If you're not, then, yes, what? Not that it matters what you say; you are wrong."

Mrs Hudson waves a hand at him. "If I'm not wrong, you'll tell him about your plans to retire to the country--"

Sherlock looks like he's swallowed a sour lemon. He probably swears to himself right now to never get drunk again with her, she thinks. 

"--and you'll ask him to go with you. What about that?"

 _As if that's really something you need to ask of him_ , she wants to add but remains quiet. She knows better.

They're watching each other fixedly and closely, neither looking away even as the seconds become a minute. From above, then, suddenly, there comes another noise--rather loud and offensive sounding, and Mrs Hudson thinks woefully of her poor flat--and both their heads snap up. They proceed to stare up at the ceiling like two cats staring at something invisible but important and listen to John curse his way through something.

Finally, the racket stops, and John shouts, "It's fine! It's all fine!" down the stairs. When Sherlock and Mrs Hudson look at each other again, Mrs Hudson can see that Sherlock's face has softened again. His eyes look gentler, his mouth slightly curved down. Mrs Hudson can't stand the pain that comes with the softness, though,  so against herself she decides to let Sherlock off the hook. "Up you go, then," she says, sighing. "Go make sure John isn't hurting himself."

Sherlock gets up to leave. "You're a terrible woman," he says at length, gravely, but bends down to kiss her softly on the forehead anyway. "Thank you."

She watches him walk to the door, stumbling a little, walking not quite as elegantly as when sober. It's very endearing to watch. They say goodbye, and Mrs Hudson listens to him make his clumsy way to the staircase. She stares at the empty door now, her heart squeezing like a fist in her chest. She should really ask John about that senility of hers, she thinks absently as she trails a fingertip down the side of the glass in front of her. In the back of her head, she can hear a voice that sounds distinctly like Sherlock say, _you're an idiot with a fool's heart._

Footsteps tear her out of her thoughts, and she quickly looks up to see Sherlock's head appear in the door again. "Hudders?" he prompts.

She _hates_ that name. "I told you not to call me like that," she says sternly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes," he says, stares at her intently. She raises her eyebrows, and he shakes his head. "The bet. Yes. It's on."

With those words, he disappears again. From the stairs, he calls a last, "NIGHT, HUDDERS!" Both his stomping and his shouting are much too loud for midnight,  but Mrs Hudson thinks, that's Sherlock for you, and God, she wouldn't have it any other way.

If she had it any other way, she couldn't holler right back up the stairs, "I'm putting the noise complaints on your rent, young man!" and laugh, her fool's heart alive and thumping in joy.


End file.
